


Blood Drunk

by The_Feeshling



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-24 07:52:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12008337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Feeshling/pseuds/The_Feeshling
Summary: Introspection. Blackout is a fan-created version of the movieverse character changed for Transformers: Prime. It is important to note that the character as written is deaf. Seen at thesoundlessvoid.tumblr.com





	Blood Drunk

He wonders what it all must sound like. Oh, how the fires must roar, how the gunshots must pop, how the screams of the dying must roll over the copper bramble infested hillside. 

Orange reflections glint off of Blackout’s blue and silver armor as he stands beneath the smoke-choked stars. Still warm energon drips off of his heavy claw tips; it runs in small, brief rivulets over the stalwart curves of his frame. Certainly, the tyton is not without his wounds, cuts and blaster burns here and there, but the majority of the blue splattered across his unyielding armor does not belong to him.

Carmine optics focus, sharp. The loss of his hearing subsequently caused the rest of his senses to hone; he feels the ground, steel silt giving softly beneath his feet, the wind against his back. There is the distantly damp feeling of the humidity from the solventwater lake not far away. The air is alternating between hot and cold, atmosphere impossibly churning as heat from the flames rise sharply and the cold winter air drops like a stone, trying to invade the heat as best it can.

He smells, lifting his chin to scent the breeze, the devastation; if he could, he’d bottle it and keep it. The massive Kaonite in-vents deeply, taking in the heady stench of burning plastic and rubber, smoke, the sour smell of spent ammunition packs, and the nearly-sweet smell of fresh energon that still manages to be detected beneath the aluminum stink of opened bodies.

Blackout can see; his callous gaze is cast across the expanse of the active battlefield, pausing at each point of movement before moving on to the next. He watches Autobots and Decepticons alike die and he cares not for either of them. He sees the silt turned to bloody mud, churned from the footsteps of the violent struggle, and weapons abandoned or dropped. A soldier clutches at it’s chest as it’s spark drowns in its own fluids, two more fall to their opponents, one flees for it’s life and is cut down by gunfire. Coals glow and burning debris floats through the air like a swarm of lightbulb bugs, swirling in the wild winds that make the inferno thrash and dance.

The tyton can also taste. A dark glossa pass over sharp double canines, relishing the flavors that mix like a gourmet dish served cold as death. There is energon in Blackout’s mouth, both his own and some belonging to the mech whose throat he tore out ten cycles prior. He spits to the side, but can still detect traces of plastic, steel, rubber, and the smoke that mixes with the natural grease that lubricates the former slave’s oral cavity.  

Tyger Pax has fallen.

The moment of stillness and internal reflection ends when an Autobot, trying to retreat, flees too close to him. Charcoal lips peel back to expose white titanium teeth, and Blackout coils up, launching himself back into the fray with just as much zeal as he entered it with several weeks ago.

There are more mechs that need to die today, and Blackout intends on watching the light go out of the optics of every single one he catches.


End file.
